Catching Assassins with Matches
by Tristana
Summary: Guards in Jerusalem are so desperate to catch a certain assassin that they decide to trap him with fire. Forgetting that said assassin might not cooperate. Written for Kinkmeme: fire and blood. Rated because we're speaking about Altair.


Requested from Forkinsocket's Kink Meme. Anon wanted a fanfic with fire and blood in it. So here it is. I would be happy to have feedback because I'm not too sure whether it works or not. (It does work for me but writing is not always about us writefag, right?)

Title: Catching Assassins - or: The evil attempt of the guards at roasting Altair, despite the nearby buildings. (Call it Casualties...)

Warning: Well, that is AssCreed for you and it means blood, fights, swords in guts and the like... But, like all fans, you know it.

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><p>It was always the same thing... no matter how many times it happened, no matter where he was. It always ended up like this. With the man lying dead at his feet, a sense of weariness overtook him. But as usual, there was no time for him to linger here, because now the guards knew he was here – damn, he was standing in front of them, how could they not see him? Something was off, that much he knew. There was not the usual hint of dread in their eyes. But rage and bloodlust, as if they had been waiting for him. And then it dawned on him. The wood of the platform, and the smell... the stench of this oil used to burn for days... they planned on trapping him here, to let him roast like some piece of meat. Having scanned the area prior to his mission, he knew the wall at his back could not be scaled. If he ever got out of this mess, he'll be the laughing stock of the others for a long while... It was a mistake, a novice mistake, he should have known those men were keen on using fire. That was when he smelled it. Burning. The cackling of the fire – above him. He leaped toward the guards, sword drawn and blade ready to jerk forward should the first not suffice. It all came in a blur, his vision darkening and forms shining an aggressive red, invading his vision. Never mind that the place was darkening and the rising flames at his back. He would not let them trap him. Lashing, he thrust his right hand forth, striking a guard in the ribs – tear it to the side, sickening sound of flesh against steel. A second without a movement – then it moved again, and this time, it was like a dance. To anyone looking it from the roofs, they would only see a white form shredding the indistinct mass surrounding it. Another strike – abdomen ripped – and another blade catching his back. Instinct kicked him, spurring him to keep on striking – the heat was rising, fumes coiling – he could feel it licking his frame. He had no time to spare... On his left, the tip of a blade aiming for his face – spinning on his right leg, he managed to strike the man in the face, the hidden blade at his wrist jamming sickeningly through his victim's eye. A faint smile crept on his features. A guard tried to catch him unaware – but he was not strong enough. As he caught his arm, he could see it – the near-terror at the thought of dying here. Another tried to cut his extended arm, perhaps to free his comrade, and probably to maim the assassin. Without thinking, he threw the man he was holding backward so he could parry. The stench of burning clothes and flesh caught with him faster than the screams of the man who had stumbled into the fire's cruel jaws. Dispatching his next assaulter, he looked into the furnace, locating the form of the guard – not dead yet. He was not a cruel man by nature – that was what he thought at least. And so he threw a knife to the darkened shape, aiming as best as he could for the throat of the guard, thus ending needless agony. It was then that a searing pain shot through his shoulder, making him lose his balance for a moment – a moment that would have had cost him his life if he had not been able to block the pain from his system, so he could kill the one who wounded him. Warmth was spreading from the throbbing cut even though he still could move his arm, he knew it was time to go. The furnace had reached nearby buildings and the alarm was raised. The confusion that sparked from civilians barging in the small space to try and quench the fire provided him with a golden opportunity to leave. He took off then, running to another building near the wall, parallel to the flames. He leapt and was about to land when beams came crashing down under the grip of the fire. Later, he would think it was pure luck that allowed him to avoid a fall that surely would have crushed his bones. As he raced as quickly as he could, he was thankful to the idiots who started that arson, for all the guards who had been previously roamed the rooftops were now out of sight, probably trying to put out what their colleagues sparked.<p>

It was only when he collapsed through the Bureau's opening that he realized that he could barely breath. Adrenalin had kept him going all this time and now, it was ebbing as pain wrecked his body. His shoulder felt like it was going to fall off, and he was certain the wound was not a pretty one. His robes were singed, in places almost brown from the fire. Just how close he was to the flames remained a mystery to him, as he had only cared to find a way to escape. And if there was something he had learned in his life, it was that if you turn to look backward, whatever was behind you would catch up with you and get you. It worked with men like Talal – and others, after all. The disturbance and bells, however, kept a certain rafiq from his bedding and he stared balefully at the assassin when he entered the main room.

"I have to say I am impressed, Altair... it's nightfall and yet you manage to keep the whole city on its feet."

"Tell that to the guards who thought that roasting me was a good idea."

"Roast you?" It was only then that Malik caught on the burnt smell emanating from the assassin. And to be honest, he had to wonder how the man made it to the Bureau in one piece. And then he noticed the blood – blood was a common occurrence and usually, it was not something he noticed. Death was what they dealt best, after all. But now there was too much blood. And the way Altair's right arm was held told him what the assassin did not.

"Take off your armour, we have to patch you up." _Again._ But he did not say it, it was not the time. Malik retrieved a cask of water from the fountain, laying it near the fireplace he has started to set up. Nights were getting colder in Jerusalem, and he just hated waking up in a chilly place. Not to mention the assassins dropping by – frozen men would not be very useful after all. He took bandages, salves, threads and needle from a basket he constantly kept in the Bureau. His work as a rafiq often involved mending the men, whenever they were wounded.

Altair did not budge throughout the whole ordeal, washing his cuts and wounds, only to let Malik help him with his shoulder. He did not even move when the sharp needle drove into his skin to help it mend, he just hissed low under his breath. All the while, he was staring into the depth of the small fire dancing before his eyes. This one looked almost comforting, nothing like the dreadful monster that could have swallowed him before. Or maybe it was only because he was in the Bureau, with Malik's dexterous hand working on his sore back... maybe it was because this place was the closest thing to what a home would be like, and that there was no threat. The scent of the salve rose and soothed more than the burns he had on his arms and torso – it calmed his nerves he did not know were tied in knots.

It was only when he was 'as good as new', dressed in a fresh set of clothes, that Malik finally spoke to him. "I expect a full report tomorrow morning. Until then, rest – and be careful with your arm. Stitches are a pain to put together so I expect you to show some respect for my handiwork."

"Thank you, Malik."

"Don't mention it. I just have something for roasted meat..." The lack of reaction – and gaping expression from Altair – made the rafiq laugh heartily for a short moment before he pulled back his serious demeanour. "Though those guards should have known that Assassins have too much metal on them to be of any use when burnt."

"Malik..." Came the growl from the assassin, who, though he was glad that his friend did not resent him too much for his lack of discretion, was still put off by the jest.

"Just rest, Altair." And with that, Malik was back to his room, probably to read or something, leaving Altair next to the fire. He spent a long time watching the flames dancing.

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><p>We know what you are thinking, readers... Seriously. *plays with a stolen hidden blade* And be happy I didn't mention skewers.<p> 


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